Of Wayward Ships and Breathtaking Birds
by LovelyLivy
Summary: Tony was oblivious. No, kissing his Israeli lover this morning he never thought he'd find this at work. Jeanne Benoit was uncharted territory in their relationship. As was the blood stains on her hands, and the kid, you can't forget the kid. TIVA, JIBBS.
1. It Was Not Death

**This is my first REAL story, with a real in-detailed plot and that is not centered around an abstract noun. Unusually, (my style) I have already made two one-shots that surround this, but I actually kind of suggest if you haven't read them that you do not proceed to do so now. It kills the hype, is all. Note that I promise this is not a Jeanne/Tony story and will not have a happy ending...for some people. Y'all will just have to wait and see. ;-)**

**Reviews are always greatly appreciated and I'll feature who reviewed for the last chapter in each new chapter. Thanks!**

**-Alivia**

* * *

_It was not death, for I stood up,_  
_And all the dead lie down;_  
_It was not night, for all the bells_  
_Put out their tongues, for noon._

_It was not frost, for on my flesh_  
_I felt siroccos crawl,-_  
_Nor fire, for just my marble feet_  
_Could keep a chancel cool._

_And yet it tasted like them all;_  
_The figures I have seen_  
_Set orderly, for burial,_  
_Reminded me of mine,_

_As if my life were shaven_  
_And fitted to a frame,_  
_And could not breathe without a key;_  
_And 't was like midnight, some,_

_When everything that ticked has stopped,_  
_And space stares, all around,_  
_Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,_  
_Repeal the beating ground._

_But most like chaos,-stopless, cool,-_  
_Without a chance or spar,-_  
_Or even a report of land_  
_To justify despair._

-_'It Was Not a Death' _by Emily Dickinson

* * *

Many a nights Tony DiNozzo had spent next to her.

Sometimes lounging peacefully, her ebony curls tickling his nose as she brushed her fingers lovingly through his chest hair. Other times gasping for air, crushing her to his body with a heated fervor, like a dying man clutching onto his last strand of life.

Reviving life into his wayward existence.

She was a broken woman.

But the way Tony DiNozzo saw it, he was pretty messed up, too.

Though they never let anyone see it, but they thrived off each other, even if just the soothing motion of air passing through lungs was a preferred comfort. The facades they kept were dangerous.

First and foremost, however, the way he loved her was even more risky.

He loved her.

He loved the way her nose would scrunch up slightly and her lips would pout in the most adorable way when she was confused. He loved the way she would put his need for silence and comfort first, allowing it to surpass her need for explanations.

She was selfless.

She was strong.

She was exotically beautiful.

She was his.

The man loved her curvy torso, and her swaying hips which rounded away towards her full ass. Her thighs, her calves, her delicate (never a word commonly used to describe her before they'd become lovers) feet and toes. He loved watching her walk towards the bathroom which was already steam-filled with the heat of a running shower.

She turned to look over her shoulder, curls hitting the dip of her back, eyes full of mirth and a slight smirk on her full, pink lips. "Care to join me?"

She did not wait for an answer.

With a slight shake of his head, a crooked grin adorning his face, Tony DiNozzo pushed away the sea blue bed sheets and preceded to do precisely what 'came naturally.'

God, he loved Ziva David.

* * *

The home was dark and warm at five-thirty in the morning. Rightfully so, to a middle aged female with a rambunctious four year old. To her, five-thirty was a time of slumber and peace.

So she never heard the man who came on that dimly-lit morning.

She never saw his eyes, cold and dark, nor the grimace his face held. Never heard the slight creak of her daughter's door opening. There would be no prints, for he wore leather gloves that stuck to his sweaty hands.

A drip of it plumped onto the hardwood flooring, curving a path down his pale forehead.

He held a gun in his left hand.

Boots made no sound, strangely. Years in the Army had taught him how to do this.

The four year old slept on. Her dark locks fanned out over the flower-printed pillow her mother had bought her for her birthday three months ago. You could hear the soothing buzz of her breath.

She held her pink teddy bear, Snuggles, in her small arms.

The man did what he was sent there to do, and left without a sound, just the way he'd come on that morning.

The mother would never see the tears that streamed down his face in remorse.

A few hours later, the mother's alarm clock begins to sound. She hits it, annoyed and groggy. She uses the bathroom, gets a cup of coffee, and turns on the seven o'clock news before she begins to notice it. The silence.

With a curious expression, bare feet pad down the narrow hallway, stopping at the little girl's bedroom. She turns the door knob, but the door will not open. Peeved that the old wood is being difficult today, she gives it a firm shake.

It opens with a snap that resounds through the empty air.

She takes in the sight of everything, her green eyes going wide and her mouth opening due to basic instinct.

Jeanne Benoit began to scream.

* * *

Jenny Sheppard hated it when her agent's played turf wars with other agencies.

She hated it even more than she used to because it was her that had to clean it up, in the end. She hated the feeling forty-three straight hours of no sleep gave her, as well.

The redhead stood up from her chair, shrugging on her coat and purse, grabbing her coffee. She took a long sip of the now lukewarm dark liquid, making a face.

Jenny could already imagine the comfort of a day off in bed. Even if Jethro wasn't there.

No, her lover would be here, fighting crime and making damn sure not to start any more turf wars. She would teach him, and he would learn, in time.

Withholding sex had always been her favorite weapon of choice when it came to the silver-haired fox.

The director bid a goodbye to her assistant and hurried down the stairs, suddenly in an even more of a hurry. Her emerald eyes were bloodshot and her hair was clearly disheveled. Jenny felt a wave of self-consciousness consume her for a moment.

Taking the elevator down to the parking garage, Jenny was more than glad that her driver had already brought the car around. She had just opened the silver door when the familiar ring of her cell-phone sounded.

Wincing, she held her hand up to her driver as to say, 'hang on', and flipped open the offending device.

"_What?_"

Stanley was never a man to eavesdrop on Director Sheppard's conversations, but was extremely curious as he watched her face contort in shock and her mouth open slightly.

His ears almost perked up, straining to hear what was on the other end of the line. All he could make out was a frantic, high-pitched voice.

Her face, calming perceptibly, gave a grim parting before she ended the call. The woman turned to look at Stanley.

"I won't be needing your service after all, Stanley."

He nodded, gulping before he decided it'd be best not to bother with asking when she _would _need to leave.

But the redhead understood his expression, somehow.

"We have a situation concerning a previous Operation. You don't have the security clearance in order for me to read you in, I'm sorry."

The words were rushed, forced, and before he knew it, she was gone, red hair and all.

* * *

Jethro Gibbs never quite could learn to play nice with others. As a young man he'd been into it with others on a daily basis, a habit which seemed to be carried on into his entire existence.

Today had been a normal day.

He'd glared dubiously at the new girl who made his coffee, which didn't seem to be quick enough.

Jethro had gotten a twenty-five cent newspaper out of the bin, and smiled at the little girl on fifteenth-street who always seemed to be trailing behind her busy mother.

The silver-haired Marine didn't seem to have a problem with parking a little extra ways away from the building of his work, as a mini-van sat in his usual spot. As he'd walked passed it, he'd seen a light yellow booster chair through the lightly tinted windows.

Jethro Gibbs flashed his badge at the doors, then continued to make his way to the awaiting bull-pen.

He stopped, however, when he saw just who sat there.

Her eyes were red and puffy, as if she'd been crying, and the dull look in them immediately informed him she was in shock. Her hands trembled, and he tried hard to hide the shock when he realized they were red with the stain of blood.

Jeanne stood up, then.

She cleared her throat and bit her lip hard to force a sob back down.

"I need help."


	2. Time Passes Impossibly

**Highlighted this week: to LittleHogwartsGirl (your reviews always make me smile), NathashaCiaraIsabellaSabio (you've got one of my bestfriend's names!), DiNUTZzo (love the name), Radafa (I've always had a thing for vampires), corik80 (I talk a lot in real life, you'll see), tidbit2008 (here ya go!), ChEmMiE (how do you prononce that one? lol.), JiBbS-tIvA4eVs (you are pretty awesome too!), and finally, AliyahNCIS (eh, I try! ;)). Thanks for all the reviews! Still scared I'm attempting this type of fic because I always feel they can get seriously OOC. But, I'll try not to. :D**

**Also, I'm in the process of getting a Beta, but all mistakes are still mine! Thanks, and please review!**

**-Liv**

**Disclaimer: No, I don't own NCIS. I think if I did I would be the coolest twelve year old alive; and have the friends to prove it. Which obviously is not the case. Regardless, I bet I'd be way better than the current people who do. (JD, Michael Rivkin, Knock-Out) WTF?**

**

* * *

**"Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me."  
-Bella Swan

**

* * *

**

Four Years and Six Months Prior to Now

The concept of feeling numb was not foreign land to her. Nor was a new bed, new sheets, a new home. Hotel rooms were cheap in comparison to the black numbers of her bank account fattened by the newly inherited fortune, and she never spent extravagently.

Jeanne Benoit had been on the road for nearly three weeks now, and her heart still felt like a million tons of solid rock was forced down upon it. She had never been a malicious woman, she thought, and pondered daily exactly what she had done to deserve any of it.

Self pity was quickly becoming one of her favorite things, however unconscious she was of doing this. It was all very silent, though. Jeanne had never been the type to whine aloud as a child, and she certainly wasn't now. Besides, who would she whine to? The mite-infested pillows?

Her routine was simply, easy. You wake up, take a shower, check-out, stop at a gas station and grab some coffee, and drive. Driving was therapeutic. It was constant, the rules and regulations neatly printed on signs at the side of the road. If you broke them, you receive punishment.

Not at all like real life.

Soon you would have to stop again for an over-salted meal of fast food or a perhaps restroom break, but then you continue the drive. The yellow markings on the grey pavement told her much about a town; chipped if it was filled with people, solid and fading if it was lonely and unused.

You would have to stop for the night eventually, the weight rubbing on your eyelids begging you to succumb to sleep. Motels were home, now. Nightmares the cracks in a well built foundation.

Activities were limited. She would lounge on the newly-made bed, counting flower patterns rhythmically. The former Doctor never watched the news, so she only had the days to count as far as dates were concerned. This was her routine, her lifeline, her entire existence for nearly three weeks.

That was until she realized that the habit of throwing up in the morning could not be blamed on merely bad fast-food. It shocked her out of the dark abyss she had fallen into faster than you could blink, and before she knew it she was finding the nearest calender and counting up the days.

In her mind none of this was possible.

She would wake up from this hazy dream in the arms of Tony DiNardo, a film Prof., a real man. Her father sitting at his sturdy wooden desk, smoking a cigar and looking over business forms.

Looking back, none of this was logical, and none of it true. Jeanne Benoit was still a heartbroken woman, and the little pink plus sign still confirmed she was carrying Tony DiNozzo's love child.

* * *

The day got brighter by the second, although brighter was, in this case, a synonym for greyer. December was the month of over-commercialized cliches and sugar hyped children. It was also the month of bitter, hardening, cold, and frozen gas-tanks.

The city was the same as always, though. Bureaucratic politicians at ever street corner, bodies shoving at each-other with serious animosity, and tourists that waited rather impatiently for museums to open. Only difference was; annoying seasonal music was played nearly everywhere you went.

Tony DiNozzo was humming rather happily that morning.

Ziva had needed to gas up her car before work this morning and so they had taken separate cars, departing with a quick peck on the lips. Life was normal.

He got a nice parking spot close to the building, and, flashing his badge at the guard, proceeded to stride into his day. Tony stopped at the vending machine near the front entrance, ever-aware of the high-calorie Danish he was currently feeding his system. Oh well, he would just have to make time to work out later.

Going to the bull-pen first thing, he threw the sticky wrapper in the trash by his desk. It was then he realized that no one else was there.

Shrugging that off, Tony decided that maybe the Director and Gibbs had long night last night. Of course, he also made every attempt to disregard the thought niggling at him that the Bossman was never late. Unless he had taken off to a foreign country again, which the agent thought highly unlikely, considering the spicy redhead his boss would have to deal with if that was the truth.

No man would willingly seek-out being keelhauled.

So the senior agent waited for some form of entertainment to come to him, pressing the green start-up button on his computer. McGeek would be in soon enough. As well as the lovely Israeli he had spent the night with last night. Distracted with some yellow-post it notes taped to his computer with scrawling letters printed on them, he never noticed the little girl approach his desk.

Nor did he notice her reach out to touch the sparkly crystal disco ball paper-weight on the edge of his desk, mesmerized by the pretty lights it cast off.

He did, however, definitely notice the sound of glass shattering not a yard from where he sat. Tony noticed this so much, so quickly, that he could not control the way his body went two-feet in the air, his mouth opening and letting out a screech that resembled a bird.

The little girl, very aware that she was the one to blame for his distress, promptly burst into tears. This is how Tony DiNozzo learnt how to be forgiving rather quickly in the event of a little, bawling, brunette. He snapped out of his shock and stood up, expensive shoes crunching through glass as he awkwardly held out his arms in a gesture of comfort. Bending down when she held out hers as well, he picked up her small frame, all too aware of the fact that she still had tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry,...sorry...sorry," she mumbled in between shaking.

"My boss says never to say your sorry." When she looked at him with this confused and heartbroken look on his face, he quickly amended, "It's not your fault at all!"

She calmed down tremendously at his words, and then said in a small voice, "What's your name?"

"Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, at your service, young lady. But you can just call me Tony," he said in his most charming tone. Maybe he could make this one kid like him

He was still holding her on his hip, her arms wrapped in a choke-hold around his neck, and when she giggled he watched her green eyes literally sparkle. The kid was cute.

Tony felt like he had seen her before, and it was unsettling that he couldn't figure out where.

"I'm Amie," she said, smiling. He grinned back.

"Well, it's very nice to meet such a lovely little lady. I'm going to need to get this cleaned up real quick, okay?" She nodded.

He sat her down on his desk carefully, turning to pick up the large glass pieces(thankfully it had only broken minimally), into his hand and depositing them in the trash. One task down, one to go.

"Amie, where's your mom? Does she work here?"

"No...she said she'd only be gone a little bit and that she had to speak with an ag-ent...agent, just like you," she spoke carefully, pronunciating each word as much as possible, however, failing to conquer the lisp in her speech. Tony was decidedly confused.

"So she just left you here..."

"Oh, no! She just told me to wait over there," Amie pointed at the stairwell entrance. "But I didn't cause' I was bored." Her curls swung as she nodded seriously. Yup. Definitely cute.

Her eyes caught something behind him and she suddenly jumped off the desk, running towards it. Tony turned around, prepared to see his boss, or possibly the girl's mother. He did not see either.

"Amelie, I thought I'd told you to..."

"But momma, look, I made a new friend! His name is Tony and he's really nice!" The woman finally realized just who her daughter had befriended while here for all of twenty minutes, and her eyes practically bulged out of her sockets as she met his eyes, a sense of dread filling her.

Tony DiNozzo simply gaped at the scene that had just unfolded before him. He smiled weakly.

"Hey, Jeanne."

She looked into his eyes, and he felt his heart tug at the bitterness he saw there.

"You always did have a way with women, Tony."

* * *

Jenny Sheppard had a throbbing headache that invaded almost every sense she had, her whole being pulsating with each ring of her phone. And this was just the least of her worries.

The blinds had been shut firmly upon the reentering of her office, and she cursed at the fact it felt like her day had just began. She dug through the side file-holder of her desk searching for the one document she knew she would not find. Jenny had shredded it herself.

Why would a man decide to target a dead arms dealer's daughter? Or better yet, why would he possibly target her daughter. Revenge, her mind answered quietly.

Revenge was what drove all actions when it came to targeting member's of the object of your hate's families. She should know, as she had done it herself to this exact woman not five years prior. Ignoring the train of thought her mind was headed for, she took a deep breath.

She was not the same person now. She had not been with Jethro then.

Jennifer Sheppard knew what she had to do.

Something she should have done five years ago, when the woman's bastard of a father had stood in her study, claiming he had not killed Jasper Sheppard. Revenge was bittersweet, and never helped the pain, however Jenny had tried. And that still left his daughter unprotected from the exact thing she had come to NCIS about today.

Now it was not about her need for revenge, or Rene Benoit, or even the woman herself. It was about her Amelie's safety. Another thought buzzed subconsciously, but she ignored that as well.

The father of the child would be thought about at a later date, when more pressing matters were not present.

Jenny stood up from her desk, brushing a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

Time was of the essence, and Jeanne Benoit and her daughter needed protection as soon as physically possible.


	3. A Porcelain Heart

**A/N- I know! It's been too long! For future reference, this story will be (hopefully) updated every Sunday. You must remember, however, that I just started competition season in dancing which seriously hinders updates. :(**

**Spotlighted This Week: tidbit2008, Radafa, CiaraBug (I love you, Sis!), LittleHogwartsGirl (rules!), AliyahNCIS, NCIS-EW-HP-Gleek, NatashaCiaraIsabellaSabio (yup, born in '98!), ChEmMiE, hailey1000. -THANK YOU FOR THE REVIEWS!**

**Thank you so much to my Beta, Miss Alexa. I call her Miss because she's in high school and could likely throttle me. :)**

_Rolled around on kitchen floors_  
_Tied my tongue in pretty bows with yours_  
_And now we pass and just like glass_  
_I see through you, you see through me like I'm not there_

_You could make my head swerve_  
_Used to know my every curve_  
_And now we meet on a street,_  
_And I am blind. I can not find the heart I gave to you_

_Sometimes what we think we really want we don't_  
_Sometimes what we think we want we really don't_  
_Sometimes what we think we love we don't_

_-Ingrid Michaelson_

* * *

Ziva David hated traffic.

She also deeply loathed the way some people, when behind the wheel, made it a habit to go unbelievably slow. Although Ziva had gotten much better since she'd first resided in the country, the Israeli still struggled to control the urge to swerve dangerously through the snail-paced vehicles, efficiently waking the moronic drivers from their half-asleep stupor.

Taking it into consideration however, that this country did have a rather high tolerance for grogginess, she did not do this. That and the fact that if she even dared to receive another ticket, Jenny would have her by the throat. One of the most simplistic but vital things Ziva had ever learned first-hand was that you do not cross an angry redhead. Ever.

Ziva mentally winced, recounting that particular experience.

Watching as the oblivious blonde in a silver sports car in front of her applied make-up, she clenched her hands around the steering wheel and made a futile attempt to not to curse in every language she knew . When the light turned, the Israeli hit the horn as hard as she possibly could, hoping to send the girl flying in her seat.

When the vehicle finally turned, Ziva revved the engine, and proceeded to do everything in her power to get to work in less than five minutes. With passion, glares, and a whole lot of sweating businessmen, she made it there in three.

Taking a long slurp from a smoothie previously acquired, she walked into work, hoping no one would notice she wore almost the same thing as yesterday. She'd forgotten to bring an extra set of clothes to work the morning prior, and Tony's white shirt was as close to feminine as she'd get on such short notice. Though Ziva had looked at it in distaste earlier that day, she secretly didn't mind wearing it that much. It smelled of him.

She hoped in vain that McGee or Abby didn't notice any of this. Or worse; smell the distinct aroma of the exploits her and Tony had engaged in only hours ago. There had been no shower this morning.

The moment she took a step from the elevator, she knew something was wrong. Working with Gibbs had taught her to anticipate anything. This was a time when that came into play. It wasn't a certainty something was wrong, no. The feeling of a thousand needles pricking her stomach lining was enough. It felt like when Michael and Tony had...no. That was not it.

Or maybe her gut instinct had nothing to do with this split-second intuition. Perhaps it was the fact she had not met the familiar chatter of fellow agents when the doors opened. Maybe it was that the air felt stuffy, tense. The giggle, ever childlike, that rang clearly through the air cemented everything. Children did not come to NCIS.

The ones who did surely did not giggle.

Sight came next. Sight is the bluntest reality. And Ziva relied upon this; she never believed in what she could not see.

There was Tony, recognizable and built form standing with his back to her in the center of the bull-pen. She noted a small child, the source of the laughter, a few feet away from him, small arms embracing a jean-clad leg. That is when Ziva saw her, and when Ziva knew what was wrong.

Her.

Ziva had never been one to obsess over one's looks. She knew better than most that they could be an easy underestimation when it came to actual strengths. But this was far different. There was no logic when this person came into play. Rules were thrown out the window, and silence filled the air when inquiries were made. The situation was screwed up irrevocably.

This was also the one person, the one thing, that Tony and she never talked about.

This was the beautiful Jeanne Benoit.

Ziva noted that Jeanne's hair had grown longer since the last time she'd caught a glance of her. The woman's hands trembled, she saw. Her ivory skin turned pale and sickly under the fluorescence. Jeanne's deep green eyes were guarded. Only the visible clench of her jaw gave anything away.

The Israeli had moved, ever so lithely, towards the scene-much like many of the witnesses she had seen did towards the grounds of a murder. Ziva had already assessed the mood of the bull-pen;the fact that her lover and his ex-lover spoke in low, terse voices.

Regardless of all of this, Ziva did not think of the small child still clinging to Jeanne's leg. Only one question echoed soundlessly through her usually buzzing mind.

Why is she here?

And only one thing was certain; sights be damned.

This would not end well.

* * *

Jeanne Benoit gripped white porcelain for dear life, staring into the spotless mirror in the Director's private bathroom.

Tears streaked her face. Her bottom lip was raw from biting it so hard. Images from hours before flashed beneath her eyelids each time she closed them, and each revelation of what she'd seen brought a new spout of nausea. She wondered feebly if this is what a panic attack felt like.

The rush of anxiety she'd felt when having to leave her daughter out in the lobby of NCIS had threatened to overwhelm her, and she wanted to get back to Amelie as fast as possible. To make sure she was okay.

To remind her subconscious that it wasn't her four-year old daughter's blood she'd seen splattered over the walls that morning.

But that Director Sheppard had insisted she calm down a bit,profusely annoyed Jeanne.. This is how she got here. In the silent, suddenly cold, bathroom. Jeanne felt a familiar numbness overtake her, one that was rather comforting however inexplicably dangerous.

Brushing a lock of brown behind a warm ear, she left the mirror.

She ignored the way everything blurred.

* * *

Jenny Sheppard had decided long ago, in the sweltering streets of Cairo, that the decisions we make change lives. For good, or for bad. She remembered the feeling of a knife twisting in her stomach sickeningly. She remembered screaming for a partner to save her, even though she'd never been the white-horse type. Jenny could always rely on Jethro to have her back.

Thinking just how ironic and fateful the events in the past six hours had been, she realized that Jeanne Benoit had been a rare case. Respectfully, it had been the naive woman's choice to leave Tony DiNozzo. But Jenny saw the fatal flaw in this; Jeanne had loved a man who was a film teacher. It had been her choice to involve the arms dealer's daughter in this mess.

Jenny felt like she'd been a hit man, aiming for a single target, but hate had made her lose control of her reflexes, taking out an innocent. Rubbing the palm of her hand against her tired eyes, she straightened and made her way down to the bull-pen, in order to get an update on the situation.

Discovering the train wreck which awaited, she prepared herself mentally for all possible outcomes.

When Jethro had left her office nearly an hour earlier, he'd said he would call Special Agent McGee, and meet him at Jeanne's home in order to attain evidence. Even though Jeanne's bloodied hands were enough.

What kind of sick-minded person would do something like this to a little girl? Traumatize her at such a young age. Revenge fueled them, that of which Jenny was certain. Her mind raced in a haze at how many people would want to cause harm to La Grenouille's family. Dead or not.

This was a problem.

Though Jeanne had assured Jenny that her daughter, Amelie, had only sustained slight rope burns, she still wished to have the young girl checked out by Dr. Mallard as soon as possible as well. With this becoming her top priority, the chances of her getting any sleep dwindled.

Emerald orbs flashing to the elevator doors as they pinged open, Jenny watched as Jethro and Agent McGee, now back from their gathering of evidence, entered the main area. Holding back an amused smirk at McGee's face at the sight of everything, she cracked her neck and finally arrived at the head of the bull-pen.

This would be a long day.


	4. Colour Dreams

**Apologies at the amount of time in between updates, I hope to shorten the time period next time. I blame it on life and technical difficulties. All fixed now. Please review. Makes my day! **

**Livvy xoxo**

**In the Spotlight: LittleHogwartsGirl, hailey1000, tidbit2008, and Radafa. Love you all!**

**Disclaimer: Nope. Not mine.**

* * *

_"Recounting the strange is like telling one's dreams: one can communicate the events of a dream, but not the emotional content, the way that a dream can colour one's entire day." -Neil Gaiman (Fragile Things)_

When Timothy McGee was a child he never wanted to be an NCIS Special Agent. In fact, even in high school, the thought had never crossed his mind. He'd always preferred the quiet approach; maybe he'd be a financial analyst. When he was accepted to MIT his thoughts veered towards a computer programmer. They made a relatively nice salary. Not a lot of human contact.

Well, they were just thoughts, obviously.

Escorting a blank-faced Jeanne Benoit to a conference room was likely one of the most awkward experiences of his entire life; second only to looking up Kate's skirt a few years back. He was fighting his urge to look at her hands in morbid curiosity and ask her the questions that bubbled in his throat. Another half of him wanted to get as far away from the arms dealer's daughter, the woman who had blamed Tony for a murder he didn't commit, as soon as possible.

It was a tough line to walk.

Finally, the carpeted hallways ended and he made sure that Jeanne was seated in a plush chair before inquiring about something to drink. At the slight shake of her head, McGee sat down as well. He'd taken a course the summer prior about talking to people, as suggested to him by Ducky. The first step was making the person comfortable with body language.

Yet, he was still an NCIS Special Agent. He took out a note pad.

"So," he began hesitantly, "Ms Benoit, you woke up this morning around what-"

"You can call me Jeanne."

McGee nodded, blushing a bit, before continuing, his voice stronger.

"What time did you wake up? What did you do?"

"I usually get up around six-thirty. I woke a little later this morning, because Amie had a dentist appointment at nine and I had the day off. I went into her bedroom and...there was blood. Everywhere. I thought it was..." Jeanne's voice cracked, and McGee swallowed heavily.

"It wasn't, though," he muttered, and decided that maybe this sympathy thing wasn't as hard as he originally thought.

"No. We have a cat, Amelie got her for her birthday. I'd thought it was strange when she didn't come to eat this morning when I'd put food in her bowl. I just assumed Princess had been in Amie's room. She was..." Letting out a ragged breath, moisture forms in her eyes.

"I was in the medical field, as you know. I don't know what made the wounds on the cat, but I do know that from the amount of blood the cat wasn't drugged. Amie didn't technically see anything, I guess. She just says that one second she was in dreamland, and the next she couldn't see anything.

"When I found her in her room her hands were tied behind her back and somebody had blind folded her. I don't know why...why would somebody do this?" It only came out half questioning because she knew too well why someone would do something like this.

It was mostly disbelief.

"Our job is to find that out. One more question. Is there any possible way Amelie's father could've been the one to-"

"No. No, that's not possible," she said, her eyes immediately going cold.

He'd definitely hit a nerve.

* * *

The corners of Leroy Jethro Gibbs' tilted up unconsciously as a small hand grasped his tightly. The little girl tilted head to the side when she saw the sliding doors of the morgue.

"Mr. Jethro, how come those doors slide? I only see that type of door when Mommy and I are at hotels, and this is not a hotel," she said seriously, confused.

"I have a friend who works down here. We have to go see him so he can look at those red spot on your wrists, okay?"

"So, he's a Doctor? Like my Mommy?"

Ducky answered the question just as they walked through the doors, obviously having eavesdropped.

"Kind of. I like to find out why people get hurt. I can even find out who hurt them. Sometimes when the people can't speak for themselves."

That's when her eyes landed on a table behind his form, and her mouth opened in shock. Gibbs felt her squeeze harder and could see a slight trace of fear in her expression-though he couldn't think why. He'd asked Ducky to put up all the bodies, as he had done. All there was, was a metal slab.

"You're a mortician! But, I'm not dead," Amelie's face scrunched and she looked as if she were about to cry. Gibbs was quick to console her.

"No, Amelie. It's okay. We just wanted to make sure you aren't hurt."

Immediately, she visibly relaxed, and moved, albeit hesitantly, towards the older man.

This was the rather rocky beginning of a beautiful friendship.

As he dabbed ointment on the raw flesh, Ducky asked her questions, to which she responded just as cheerfully as she did when Gibbs did.

"How do you know about what I do?"

"Oh, I watch this show called CSI. They cut up dead bodies all the time," she answered matter-of-fact.

Both men's eyes widened perceptibly. "Your mom allows you to watch that?"

"Well...not really. But don't tell her I told you I watch'em 'cause she told me not to...please," she pleaded, reminding him so much of a certain Special Agent.

Patting the dear child's back as she and Jethro walked from the room, he smiled.

She was, without a doubt, an extraordinary child.

"Tony, what is happening?"

* * *

Only a minute prior Jenny Sheppard had left the bull-pen, leaving the two lovers to contemplate what they'd just been told. It felt like an eternity.

"I really don't know, Ziva," he whispered, though he knew she could hear him.

His ninja.

Brushing a long brown curl behind her ear, she pursed her lips and looked down at her hands. For the first time in her entire life, Ziva David felt unsure.

Even asking Tony if he loved her hadn't been this nerve-wracking.

"Tony, is there any chance Amelie Benoit could be..."

"I don't know Ziva," Tony muttered, a little sharper than he'd originally intended.

Watching her stand stiffly and walk towards the ladies restroom, it killed him to know that was the best answer he could give her.


	5. Inquiries and Pathetic Resolve

**This update took WAY too long, I know. I had some issues getting this chapter Beta'd, so it isn't, but I still hope you enjoy. I'll update within the next two weeks! Promise! **

**-Liv**

* * *

_I'll follow you into the park, through the jungle, through the dark_  
_Girl, I've never loved one like you_

_Moats & boats & waterfalls, alley ways & pay phone calls_  
_I've been everywhere with you_

_-Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros_

* * *

"We need to transfer them to a safe house, Phillip," the redhead's hoarse voice sounded through the dark room, clearly irritated. Exhausted.

"The fact of the matter is, Director Sheppard, we can't. There isn't any means for NCIS to do so. Ms. Benoit has is not and has never been an active participant in the U.S. Military, and all you have is circumstantial evidence of an 'attack'. We can't focus viable resources on something that well may be a hoax. Considering your past with this woman, I honestly don't understand why exactly you're pushing-

"My past with Jeanne Benoit has absolutely nothing to do with the present. The fact of the matter is-," she hissed indignantly, eyes narrowing dangerously.

"A four year old girl's life is in danger. We aren't doing our job if we don't provide protection for this little girl _and_ her mother."

On the glowing screen of MTAC, the man sighed and rubbed his temple, then looked down at the desk in front of him. She wanted to smirk, but Jenny's body wouldn't cooperate, too tired to perform such a simple action. Jenny knew she'd won the battle. Well, half of it, at least.

"Fine. Have two of your agents as protection detail. You have only a few days to figure this the hell out, nothing more, nothing less. Don't get emotionally involved this time. Are we clear, Jenny?"

She inclines her head a fraction of an inch and then her green eyes darken, angry at the reprimanding tone his voice takes. Because she is surely able to take care of herself.

"Crystal."

The screen went black, then, and a tall form stood from a chair somewhere near the back row of the seating area. He emotionally prepared himself for what was to come, the catastrophe of it all. Jenny moves gracefully to touching distance, and then lets out a shaky breath, one she feels she'd been holding for a while. Silence filled the air between.

Then, someone did speak, and the ice melted instantly.

"Why, Jethro?"

"That's a loaded question," he murmurs, soft and unlike any way he'll ever speak to anyone else. Just her.

"I know," she mutters, stepping closer and placing a hand on his chest as his arms come to grasp her slender waist. It's not a move that's filled with lust, or even natural. Comfortable.

"You think DiNozzo is gonna be able to handle this one?"

She smiled, placing a chaste kiss on his jaw and letting her head drop, then stepped back almost as suddenly, and he knew that from the look in her emerald orbs that this was already making her gut twist.

Her frozen smile turned into a twisted one as she began to walk away, her last words ringing clear in his ears.

"I think he'll handle it as well as Ziva handles it, Jethro."

* * *

She hated crying.

Any part of it was unbecoming, weak, and presented a picture in people's minds that you could never take back. She pushed off the wall she leaned so delicately against, then started back towards the bull-pen. All too ready to get started on the case.

For the finishing of this particular case meant no more Jeanne Benoit.

McGee sat at his desk, typing away, and Tony was absent from sight. The empty desk at the end of the establishment was currently occupied by a small frame who sat on a chair far too large for her, legs barely hitting the ground. The legs swing back and forth rhythmically, and Ziva was suddenly reminded of Tali David.

Little Tali could never sit still as well.

A high-pitched, soft, humming floated gently through the air, and it took Ziva a moment to realize it was Amelie making the senseless noise.

"What's your name?"

The question broke the air almost a millisecond after the humming ceased, ending the nostalgia it carried with it.

"Ziva David," she said, and realized a second too late it came out a little wry. She attempted not to meet the little girl's eyes as she said in a slightly softer tone her next words, even though she knew the answer well. "What is your's?"

"Amelie Renee Benoit. Why do you talk so funny?" she asked curiously, and Ziva looked up, a smile gracing her lips.

"Amelie!" Jeanne scolded, entering the bull-pen, not actually looking at anyone in particular.

"Sorry, Ziva."

Not pausing, Ziva said her next words guarded but soft. "That is okay, Amelie. I am from another country far away called Israel so I talk a little different. And it's unnecessary to say 'sorry' for that, you did not know. And it is a sign of weakness."

"But my mommy says it's a sign of strength." Amie twirled a dark curl on her finger, and then her lips puckered into a meaningful expression, as she glanced up at her tense mother.

"By the way, mommy, you said we could go get some hot cocoa today after my dentist appointment."

Jeanne looked down at her daughter, squeezing her petite shoulder gently.

"Not today, sweetie. Maybe we'll be able to in a few days."

"But mommy..."

"There's no reason you guys can't go get something to eat, as long as you're with an escort at all times," Jenny said, too entering the workplace with her lover just behind her.

"I'll do it."

The redhead looked up, startled at her friends volunteering, considering. She wisely chose to say nothing, watching Ziva put on her gun holster and picking up her badge. The situation would resolve itself.

Amelie smiled merrily, putting on her coat and practically skipping the few feet to Ziva's desk. She held out one small hand, expecting the Israeli to grasp it. The woman stared for a moment, then held out hers as well. Together they sat off towards the elevator, Amie more so running then walking, with Jeanne following close behind, a weary look planted firmly upon her face.

* * *

"Tony, where have you been? Tell me what's going on! All I know is that I don't know what's going on, and when I asked McGee he just gave me the evidence from that girl who accused you of murder's home. Oh, and she has a kid! God, Tony, what if you knocked her-

"Abby!" It was sharper than he'd originally meant, and he winced as a hurt look crossed the over zealous Goth's face.

"I know," he said, softer, but clenching the metal evidence table and bowing his head.

"Is evidence what you need?"

All he did was nod.

"Where's Gibbs?" she asked hesitantly. He didn't answer, and suddenly Abby's teeth tugged at her lower lips harshly.

"You're looking for answers, aren't you, Tony?"

Smiling slightly, his green eyes said it all. Her's faded as she spoke, aware of each protocol she was breaking, regardless of the fact this man was like a brother to her.

"I have you're DNA on file, of course. I'll compare it to..."

"When, Abs?"

She rolled her eyes a bit for good measure.

"I'll have the results when I get them, Tony. You should know this by now."


End file.
